


Undulating Motions

by Syndicate_V



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Holiday: Valentine's Day, Light BDSM, crosspost, how does one simply do the smuts, i guess, ooohn lady times, second-person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndicate_V/pseuds/Syndicate_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is in possession of a significant other, it stands to reason that they'll want to dote on them. When one is in possession of a significant other that has been named "the psychotic biotic", it stands to reason that "doting" might come with or without possible resistance.</p>
<p>Nothing the galaxy's savior can't handle!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undulating Motions

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my GotVG account as well; thought about a sequel but I'm still shrugging about smut. I don't write it nearly enough, to be quite frank. Practice makes perfect, amirite~?
> 
> All errors are my own; normal disclaimers apply. I don't own Mass Effect, just several shameless copies.

You hadn't known what was going on in that muddled mess between the thickness of your ears when you chose to put music on. Honestly, it was probably out of some misguided attempt at seduction, some poor groping for feelings that you're entirely too weary for.   
  
Or, perhaps the upcoming Earth-related holiday that had begun to show its ugly mug in the sudden flashiness of the Normandy's decor was the cause. Either way, you threatened to shove Traynor's precious, _precious_ toothbrush up her pristine back passageway if she brought the abundant pink hearts and cherubic cutouts even the slightest _inch_ towards your quarters. With a sharp whine and a sudden alertness, she nodded her consent and clenched just the slightest bit. Joker called you a buzzkill and promised to shower you in divine chocolates, as befitting of your station. You flipped him off with an affectionate grin.  
  
Now, you're wringing your hands, a motion too youthful, too _pithy_ for someone thirty-five years of age. A motion you're berating yourself for, a motion you're certain she will berate you for as well. You're contemplating wine, knowing you'd rather have a scotch on the rocks, having conflicting emotions that are a whole mess that you--frankly, don't understand, and...   
  
She walks in. Bluster and booming, moving both gracelessly and yet akin to a cat. Hunter's movements. Movements you're certain you've emulated while enhancing your body with biotic strength to crash into enemy mercs with, the last thing they see before oblivion takes them.   
  
It is not the first time you have had this thought, that this woman before you is oblivion incarnate. She is the last hit before overdose, the last drink before an unsteady drive home. She is the blood on your knuckles, the bullet in your head. Power. Terrifying. Desirable. And she is walking towards you, a vision of shaved hair and striking tattoos, plump lips and heavily-lidded eyes. Bound breasts peek pertly from underneath their coverings; aforementioned coverings dart around her torso, meeting in a triangle underneath baggy pants. There is a joke here, something to be said about that triangle, but you aren't feeling terribly literary-minded.   
  
She hasn't spoken, not yet. And it is up to you to start the conversation, as useless as words feel. "Jack." You mutter her name, tongue sticking thickly to the bottom of your mouth. Wish you'd brought out that scotch. You know she wouldn't mind, would probably prefer it.   
  
She cocks an eyebrow, shrugs off the leather jacket barely covering the top half of her body. It falls on a chair in your room, draped over it almost lovingly. She's never been one to bother with clothes; a few years ago, she strutted around with simply a belt covering her nipples from view.   
  
The good ol' days. "You miss me, Shep?" The way the "P" is punctuated allows her lips to purse out, further temptation with their fullness.   
  
Gruffly, you respond, hand rubbing at the back of your head. Strands of hair stick to your sweaty fingertips, making you wish--not for the first time--that you'd shaved it again. Military training drove home the importance of keeping it short; personal preference had it completely gone. The only reason it's grown back now as much as it has is because of a lack of time on your part to chop it all off again.   
  
"Stupid question." Your hand falls to your pants and grips the fabric imperceptibly. On the other side of the room (quickly getting closer), Jack smirks. It is a familiar smirk, that one. She either gives it before she slides to her knees for a round of devilish play or before she dismantles a body entirely with her biotics. Both are entertaining, but you're hoping for one over the other at the moment.   
  
But she does neither, merely gets in your face and frames it with her hands. One drifts down to your uniform, still worn even when shore leave is the next day. She comments on it, cinnamon-flavored breath wafting over your face as she murmurs, "Fucking workaholic."   
  
"Somebody's gotta save this sorry-ass galaxy." You reply, hands roving to the small of her back. Her response is a cluck of her tongue before she promptly invades your mouth with it, exploring in the manner that she is accustomed. The little minx presses the organ against your own, coaxing it to come out and play. And, of course, it does. As always. But she flicks back, almost as if to tell your tongue to piss off, and twirls in a fierce manner against the backs of your teeth, damn near polishing the already-clean ivory.   
  
Meanwhile, one hand presses furiously against the back of your head, as if she will devour you whole. The other slides down the front of your uniform, picking irritatedly at the front clasps, confusing as they are. She gropes you through it, breast molding to her hand as if made for it. Her fingers twitch, press against one aroused nipple, and two take it upon themselves to clamp tightly, pulling it to further attention. An attention you hadn't thought possible, considering the thickness of your uniform.   
  
Her tongue slides back to yours, wrapping around it in a manner much like her fingers are clenched so intensely around your nipple. A groan beckons in the back of your throat, reverberates in your shared kiss. It is a reminder that you need breath, would gladly go without if it meant asphyxiating from this intimacy. But you wrangle your tongue from hers reluctantly, the sounds of you both catching breath hissing in the room.   
  
And the music. A recommendation from Garrus, you believe. You love the big turian; him and Wrex make up the best bud triumvirate, but hell if you're going to take his musical advice again. Now that your heart isn't pounding too roughly in your ears, you can hear the distinct clash of the soft techno-jazz-holy-hell-is-that-a-wub-I-hear with your actions. It is too tender a sound (if you ignore the robotic " _woom woom_ " that occurs every fifteen seconds, like clockwork), too modest for the wild thing plucking at your chest and her asshole of a keeper.   
  
Her mouth is buried in your neck, hips gyrating at your own, fingers still pressing against your inflamed nipple. "Take this shit off, Shep." Her demand is a hoarse one, one thick with need. It's a voice you're well-acquainted with, need constantly and consistently. A drug, if you will, if drugs can bite.   
  
Which she does, mind you. She showcases the pristine sharpness of her teeth now, jabbing them shortly into your neck before soothing over the nubby marks with her tongue. The alternation of teeth and tongue (and _squeeze, squeeze_ ) turns into her sucking at your neck, playing on nerves that cause a moan to burst from you. Unexpected, you can feel your hands clamp at her waist as she smiles into her sucking, amused as she continues on.   
  
A pause between each suck. "Take." She goes back in, backs off again. "It." A waft of cool air finds its way onto your neck, eliciting a shiver from you. "Off."   
  
Your curse bites off her chuckle, hands digging into the small of her back before tossing her onto your bed. Your uniform comes off easily enough; you can feel her eyes memorizing every snap, every button, every zipper. Something she does every time, but can never manage the patience to try for herself. You can't blame her; were you not trained in this uniform, you wouldn't know how it works either.   
  
And you are naked before her, save for underwear. Her eyes rove over you now for a very different reason, smile widening at every muscle and scar. She bites her lower lip, playing, momentarily, the shy maiden. However, the glint in her eye gives her intentions away, the crook of her finger as she beckons you forward further ruins it. It is her words, though, that shatter the illusion entirely and make you move. "Come on, Shepard." She pants out, fingers hooked in her pants and tugging them downwards. " _Fuck me._ "   
  
Gods help you if you aren't on her as soon as those words leave those sinfully-marred lips of hers. You press your body on top of hers, hands going to restrain hers at the top of her head. As expected, she bucks upwards, moaning uninhibitedly about how _fucking hell_ she's _missed you_. And _shit, Shepard, do **something** already!_ She detests the teasing, loves the teasing, pines for your fingers so firmly inside her even as she bites her lip to keep her eyes from watering. Her orgasms are always intense with you, always causing her to cover her eyes with one hand as she catches her breath.   
  
Not today. It's been too long for you to abide with the covering of her eyes, the hiding of freshly-made tears.   
  
So, her hands are up. Would that you had the presence of mind to get some rope or cable ties or _something, anything to keep this wanton woman from coaxing you into letting her go._ Your hands reposition themselves, one to further grip her wrists, the other to shove at her pants, already too-low on her hips and revealing a soft patch of gently-trimmed hairs.   
  
Commando? Yes. Either that or flossy panties that she'd never keep on for long. Not with anticipation burning in her blood, burning in yours.   
  
At the revealing of her womanhood, she bucks herself higher, shimmies her pants down and kicks them off with quick, rhythmic motions. Her moans become eager, pants higher in pitch. If you are to let her go, she will undoubtedly turn the always-persistent wrath that is within her upon you, digging her nails in your ass as she pumps her tongue in and out of your core. She'd leave bleeding marks that would remind you of her every time you sat to write out a report, crouched to get a better aim, or bend over to pick up a dropped glass.   
  
You wouldn't mind the constant reminder (like you'd ever be able to forget anything about this woman), but, still, you hold firm. She takes to tossing her head back, the fierce jutting of her jaw leading to an elegant neck dotted with tattoos in memory of the fallen. A walking memorial, she has made her body out to be. Your hand rises from her pants to this neck, tracing each tattoo as best you can. A line here, a circle there, several jagged bits all leading to... _here_.   
  
Your fingers work her out of her impromptu top, revealing more of her to your hungry gaze. No bra, of course, how can she even wear even a strapless one with that get-up? You have half a mind to find out if there're mass effect fields embedded in her top to keep them pert, but now is not the time. No, now, you press your lips to one eager nipple, placing a gentle kiss on it before engulfing it in your mouth. Your tongue passes along it, swirls as she did earlier in your mouth. The tongue backs away, makes way for your teeth. Your free hand pops the tabs on your bra, slides off one side. Quickly, you switch hands, holding her with the other as you get your bra strap off the other side. It falls off your bed, somewhere off to the side. Possibly lost, completely forgotten about by the two writhing figures. Top bared, Jack secured once more, you play with her other breast, gripping the tattooed masterpiece and plucking at the peaked nipple with precise movements. Your mouth is on the other one, teeth grinding near-painfully on it.   
  
Your hand soon finds that it is bored with the perky protrusion, soon seeks its thrills downwards, towards the gentle nest of hair that hides a soppy wonderland. One finger dips between the lower lips, finds they part with a wet sigh. It crooks, beckons her pleasure forward, asks for permission. Jack's curse, the "fuck you, Shepard" she muffles into her bitten lower lip doesn't coalesce with her upturned hip movements, jerking to grab a hold of your sliding finger, slippery with her excitement. You glance down, down at where your scarred finger teases at her weeping entrance, and add another finger to the assault. Circling the area, your fingers dart in, ignore the unconscious clamping of her lower muscles, and dart back out, slathering her pleasure along the nub of her clit. She jerks harder, nearly comes undone by the slow, sultry movements. A hiss passes from between her teeth, grinding together similarly to her thighs, which are now trying to trap your risque fingers, your teasing hand, even the arm that possesses them. One finger is more clever than the rest; it pays no heed to the thighs pressing close and instead strokes the slippery bud once more, curling against it as it hardens in delight. Her thighs still, she gives out a short gasp, but you know she is far from done. She will take much more until her first orgasm, and will then take much, much more until she is satisfied. Her pleasure is your pleasure; you find joy in her excitement, in her rabid responses to your attentive touch.   
  
That one finger strokes back down, passes over Jack's clit before twisting inside her again, collecting a new batch of wet arousal. Your reward is her languid moan, a twist of her lower body as she once again tries (and fails) to _get what she wants_. You remove the finger once more, this time raising it to your lips and taking it into your mouth, the saccharine taste only soured slightly by the sweat of your exertions.   
  
Tasting her, your eyes are on her, boring deeply. The finger pops out. "Just as delightful as memory serves." She snorts, the line too cheesy for her tastes. Pity, you mean every word.   
  
The finger is returned to her, this time joined by a friend. Both delve in deeply, twist madly, and tickle in ways that only fingers (and perhaps tongues) can. You loom over her, pressing her wrists into the pillows. One knee is at the side of her waist, the other resting past one of her outstretched legs. The new position gives your hand a better range of motion and--with a wink and saucy smirk your only warning--you begin to fuck her in earnest with your fingers. The groan that comes from her is low and feral, a sound you've missed terribly. Her head nearly smacks your headboard as she slings it backwards; her hands claw at yours in a pleading for release. The urge to touch must be bothering her like mad, she is very much a grabber. She'd sling her arms around your head, press her teeth against your ear as you finger-fuck her. She'd pull your hair, pull her own hair when you go down on her.  
  
And now she can't. Poor Jack. "You're...You're a piece of sh-shit, Shepard." She gasps out, the words broken by her sharp intakes of breath. You lean your weight on the hand holding hers hostage, elbow bending outwards as your face inches into the territory of her own. Beads of sweat dot her forehead. Her lipstick is smeared, its glossiness faded by her constant mashing of upper lip to bottom in some manner of alleviating the mounting pressure.   
  
"Of course I am," Your response is easy-going, deceptively so. "And you love it."  
  
Her feral look is absolutely gorgeous, but you note she says nothing to dispute this, merely lets out another low moan mixed with a curse and bows her back further in.  _Oh, you're in trouble now._  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Considering a follow-up, because leaving things like this is simply cruel. If not more smut, it'd probably just be morning-after fluff; whichever one more floats my boat at the time. Currently undecided at the moment. But writing this was fun; I should definitely give smut a go more often.


End file.
